My Summers at the Space Station

There was something about outer space that felt like it was my own. I first noticed that NASA, as a brand, expanded outside of just Houston when I was in the international airport, at about ten years old. There were shirts with its logo printed blown up all over, all different colors, shapes and sizes. Some with long sleeves, short sleeves; women’s v-necks to the left and a men’s crew neck to the right. The merchandise I had only ever seen within the confines of a gift shop fifteen minutes away from my childhood home were on display in the sixth largest airport in America, for anyone from anywhere to buy and wear.  

My mom always told us growing up that she wanted us to be “cultured,” which meant that if children had discounted admission and there was an opportunity to learn, we were going to participate. I don’t remember my first exact visit to the space station. I have a montage of memories from various points in my youth being there, though. I remember the necessary middle school field trip to the rocket facilities, taking the shuttle past the field of longhorns and learning about the same successes and failures that I had seen in the movies. I remember going with my cousin, where I played arcade games and put on a space helmet two times the size of my head. I remember always begging for the stuffed monkey with a space suit on, which I eventually did buy and named Dave. While I fondly remember being there, the space around the space station feels more concrete in my nostalgia. 

I desperately wanted to leave my hometown after high school more than anyone that surrounded me. I had dreams of being a filmmaker (I had never used a camera once in my life) and being a screenwriter (also had never once written a script). There was an intense and rude awakening in my first semester in the big city with my big dreams. My colossal disappointment made me yearn for home more and more. I listened to music that echoes the twang reminiscent of the forced country radio station on our road trips down south. I Googled “movies set in Texas,” to catch a glimpse of the flat wheat and cotton fields that surround suburbs. Being far away, it was expected that I would miss what I consider my “immediate home”. I missed my parents, my dog, my siblings, the ability to drive, Tex-Mex and probably more when I put thought into it. When I started watching “X-Files,” I felt the same pang of nostalgia. The show isn’t set in Houston, nor is it anywhere near a space station in general. Male protagonist Fox Mulder, however, is obsessed with extraterrestrials, similar to myself at around eight or nine or years old. Aliens and isolating Americana brought all the feelings back of just how comfortable NASA, as a place, was for me. The following winter break, I begged my parents to take our entire family to the “NASA Galaxy Lights,” which consists of various space-themed shapes wrapped in Christmas lights, where families go to waste money on expensive hot chocolate and feel the holiday spirit. Being back in that space as a much older and happy to be home college student brought back all the memories I had craved while I was away from home.

The vast idea of space and the future of technology sat within the realm of my comfortable suburbia. For that reason, it had alway felt like mine. Returning to it this summer, sighing as I saw the admission price had jumped about double from when I was a child, everything had changed. With the celebration of 55 years of the Apollo 11 mission underway, families from all over were huddled in the grand lobby of the space station. I heard languages around me that I couldn’t recognize, but their tone telling the young ones to pose and smile next to the model rockets. The familiarity of it all leaves me nearly unfazed to the greatness that others are seeing. I had already seen these rockets in a past life, and I had done the interactive games set for children before at some point, I’m sure. They’ve integrated new technology, though. A giant display of virtual reality where parents can pay to have no complaining children in their ear for $18 a ride and a new exhibition explaining the plan to send our astronauts to Mars decorate the corners of the room. They still have the astrological “Angry Birds” arcade game and photobooth that still takes cash, which was nice to see. 

I couldn’t understand how all of these people were connecting with NASA, because they never could in the same way I did. The space station was there for my field trips, and we drove on Saturn Lane to go to my grandma’s house. There was something about outer space that felt like it was my own. I’ve sort of grown more comfortable in my distance from the space station over the years. A consistent summer back from school ensures that I get to relive and sit with sentimentality. June and July hold that hope and warmth of being home again, driving to NASA, seeing the same astronaut statue that sits atop the nearby McDonald’s. I see the same restaurants and parks, with shiny and new modifications. Time makes the space change and come August I have to take off, and leave the things that know me as well as I know them. The space station is something that has become a representation of my home. To me, it’s summers off with my mom and it’s getting snow cones after seeing and reading about men on the moon. It will always be partly mine, and I’ll always come back to it. 

Written by Ana Marks

There’s An Alien in Alabama!: The Summer After Freshman Year

Coming back home to Alabama has been…interesting. Honestly, a huge part of me missed the South. Crazy, right? Why the hell would an Afro-Latino queer man (?) miss that? I always tell my friends that – aside from the menagerie of bigots, life-threatening storms, and endless mosquitoes – there’s this sort of hidden beauty in the South. Most of the people are nice, the nature is gorgeous and it’s SIGNIFICANTLY quieter than New York. I thought it would give me a much-needed break from the hustle and bustle of college life in the city. However, the summer after my freshman year of college only served to remind me of 

one thing about the South: I am an alien here. 

Growing up in small town Southern Alabama, I was only ever taught how different I was from every other person around me. I went to an all-black elementary school as a kid. It was not advertised as that, but due to school district zoning in the city all the black kids “ended up” at one of three schools on the southside. We were the “bad kids.” We were the “dumb kids.” Gotta

love public school. Despite that, I have a lot of fond memories of my first elementary school. I had a few solid friends. I got above average grades. I still did get teased from time to time for different things like being light skinned or hanging out with girls, but I never read too deeply into it. It was the gay jokes that really did me in. I didn’t even know what gay was, but I knew everyone around me hated it. Even worse, they already made up in their minds that I was gay. I still insisted I was straight though, and I played the role well enough to make it to fourth grade alive. I played soccer and basketball, pretty well if I do say so myself, and I focused on my grades. 

In fifth grade, I got the opportunity to go to a magnet school. If you don’t know what that is, it is supposed to be a school for “intellectually advanced” kids. Think honors classes except it’s the entire school. I was so excited when I got the letter. I literally felt like I got chosen to go to Hogwarts. The school was in a nice neighborhood, they had better lunches, and they actually had a playground that wasn’t broken. However, my dreams were crushed rather quickly. When I got there, I found out I was one of seven kids of color in the entire school. All the other kids were white, listened to Luke Bryan, and went to Europe for the summer. I didn’t even know kids were allowed to fly to Europe at that point. Now, I had to learn how to be straight, but also how to be white. I wouldn’t have survived otherwise. Everyone looked at us with hawk eyes, waiting for the moment we slip up. We had to be their version of excellent or we were nothing. I never let my grade drop below an 80. I never spoke out of turn. 

Things were somewhat easier in middle school. We got to a point where the kids I went to my first and second elementary schools with merged into one. It was like two parallel universes crashed into one another. I had a group of people who knew me one way and another who knew me a completely different way. Both expected that of me, but neither were true. Then, I just gave up trying. I just existed. Everyone already seemed to know everything about me, so I let them think it. 

I managed to float by with all the southern belles who wanted their “gbf” arm candy, but by highschool I was on my own. My girl friends started focusing on their richer boyfriends, and slowly stopped talking to me. No guys would talk to me unless it was to ask me out or call me a slur - sometimes both. Some people even thought I was a drug dealer at one point. Back then, I would’ve thought I was in hell. My brain ran wild with unrealistic expectations and questions. Why was I so different? Would I fit in anywhere? Does fitting in exist? 

Still, I made it through high school with the support of a few close friends and the studio I worked for as a choreographer. Through love and artistic expression, I built an armor for myself and persevered my way to college sixteen hours away in New York City. 

I felt so blessed as soon as I stepped foot in New York. All around me, I saw people just living their lives so unafraid of what everyone else around them is thinking. They celebrated their differences. I finally connected with other Puerto Ricans outside of my own family. I saw gay people who were out, loud, and proud. It was beautiful. It was everything I had ever wanted for my life. Sure, I was tired, and I definitely missed my family more than anything, but I finally felt like I was in a place I could call home and not be ashamed of it.

But still, I felt completely different than every single person around me. I thought differently. I dressed differently. I talked differently. I cared about different things. I was the most free I had ever been, but I still compared myself to everyone else. I was too feminine. I was too masculine. I was too black. I wasn’t black enough. I was 16 hours away from home, and I had no idea who the hell I was. 

When I lost my grandmother at the end of freshman year, my entire world shattered. I shut out everyone and everything. Every mask crumbled and I lashed out, unapologetically. I lashed out at my father and his queerphobic and sexist comments. I lashed out at the racist hillbillies at work. I was a mess. I was vulnerable and feeling attacked on all fronts, even when I wasn’t. But in my darkest hour, I was given a spark of hope. 

I wasn’t always a spiritual person. On my dad's side, I had the bible beaten into my blood every Sunday morning and Wednesday night. I used to be completely turned away from the idea of any higher power or any sort of life after death. Why worship the God that I’m told hates me yet created me at the same time? But, I felt something otherworldly one night. I could barely sleep that night after a confrontation I had at the gas station. I felt hopeless. I felt alone. Not just in my city, but existentially as a whole. I told myself that I was doomed to be eternally alone in the universe, and that somehow, someway, it was my fault. 

That night, I truly believe my grandmother visited me in my dream. I don’t remember the conversation exactly, but I vividly remember her telling me, “It’s all gonna be alright, Jaybird.” I woke up the next morning with a renewed sense of purpose within me. I scrolled through videos from freshman year and reminded myself of the whole world that’s outside of middle-of-nowhere Alabama. I reminded myself of all the work that I have done to get to the place I am now. This town may be small with even smaller minded people, but the Earth is so much bigger than that. I’m not an alien. I am human, and I will never be alone. I live my life with the strength given to me from those before me. I live my life with love to those like and unlike me. I have a life for a reason, and it is my right to live it as I choose. That night, I stopped clouding my mind with the lessons that a place like Dothan, Alabama teaches people like me. No more masks. No more hiding. I am who I am, and anyone who doesn’t like it can kiss my ass. 

To anyone reading this that feels like they are alone in the universe, know that you never are. We all share this big, beautiful world, and it is indeed a big world. A world where no two living creatures will ever be the exact same, no matter what anyone may think. From the smallest ants to the biggest whale, life breeds diversity and difference. There is a one in four hundred-trillion chance of something being born. There isn’t life anywhere else in the universe for lightyears. We aren’t just different, we are special.

Written by Jai LePrince 

Unveiling the Layers of Jordan Peele’s Nope

Greetings Earthlings and fellow film enthusiasts! I think it’s about time we talk about the talented mind of Jordan Peele and everyone’s favorite film of his, so buckle up because we’re diving into Jordan Peele’s Nope, a film that’s far more than just an edge-of-your-seat thriller. This cinematic gem is a masterclass in storytelling, it’s a rich tapestry woven with complex themes, particularly the exploitation of animals and the continued exploration of Afro-Surrealism. As a film major with a deep passion for storytelling the layers of complexity that challenge our perceptions and provoke deeper thought, I found Nope to be a showcase in the subversion of genre expectations while delivering a thought-provoking critique of the entertainment industry and societal exploitation. Ready to explore how Nope flips those expectations and presents such a sharp critique? Let’s get into it!

The Spectacle and the Beast: A Critique of Animal Exploitation

At its core, Nope grapples with the theme of exploitation, particularly in the context of animals within the entertainment industry. The film follows siblings OJ (Daniel Kaluuya) and Emerald Haywood (Keke Palmer), who run a struggling family horse ranch that supplies horses to Hollywood productions. This setup is no coincidence. Peele deliberately places the Haywoods—descendants of the first motion picture jockey, a Black man—at the center of a narrative that scrutinizes how Hollywood exploits not just people but animals for profit.

The film’s most explicit commentary on animal exploitation is embodied in the subplot involving Gordy, a chimpanzee who goes berserk on the set of a 90s sitcom. This scene, though brief, is haunting. Peele uses it to encapsulate the dangers of pushing animals beyond their limits for the sake of entertainment. Gordy’s violent outburst is a direct result of the pressures and unnatural environment forced upon him, serving as a metaphor for the broader exploitation at play.

This subplot mirrors the main narrative thread involving an extraterrestrial entity that OJ and Emerald encounter—a creature they attempt to capture on film, hoping to profit from the spectacle. The entity itself can be seen as an embodiment of the commodification of nature, with the Haywoods initially viewing it as just another wild animal to be tamed, controlled, and monetized. However, as the story unfolds, the realization sets in that this creature, like Gordy, cannot be subdued or exploited without dire consequences.

Afro-Surrealism: Peele’s Signature Lens

Nope is also a continuation of Peele’s exploration of Afro-Surrealism, a genre that blends elements of Black culture with surreal, often nightmarish, scenarios. Peele has long been interested in how the Black experience can be portrayed through a surrealist lens, using this genre to address issues of race, identity, and trauma.

In the film, Afro-Surrealism is most apparent in the way the Haywoods are situated within the larger narrative of Hollywood. Their family legacy is tied to the origins of cinema itself, yet they are relegated to the margins, their history erased and forgotten. This erasure is surreal in its own right—a commentary on how Black contributions to culture and history are often overlooked or deliberately omitted.

The film’s unsettling atmosphere, punctuated by moments of eerie calm and sudden terror, creates a surreal experience that mirrors the disorientation often felt by marginalized communities navigating spaces that weren’t built with them in mind. The Haywoods’ quest to capture the creature on film is a desperate attempt to reclaim agency and recognition in an industry that has historically exploited and discarded them.

Moreover, the character of Jupe (Steven Yeun), a former child star who survived the Gordy incident, adds another layer to the film’s Afro-Surrealism. Jupe’s attempt to monetize his trauma by turning it into a theme park attraction is both absurd and tragic, highlighting the surreal lengths to which people will go to survive in a world that commodifies their pain.

Peele’s Masterful Subversion of Genre

What makes Nope truly remarkable is how Peele subverts the expectations of a typical horror or science fiction film. Instead of relying on jump scares or a straightforward alien invasion plot, Peele crafts a narrative that is as much about the characters’ internal struggles as it is about the external threat they face. The real horror in Nope isn’t just the alien entity—it’s the exploitation, the erasure of history, and the relentless pursuit of profit at the expense of humanity and nature.

Peele’s direction is meticulous, with every shot contributing to the film’s broader themes. The vast, open landscapes of the ranch juxtaposed with the claustrophobic interiors of the Haywood home create a sense of isolation and entrapment. The sound design, too, plays a crucial role in building tension, with the eerie silence of the ranch punctuated by the unsettling sounds of the creature.

The performances in Nope are equally compelling. Daniel Kaluuya delivers a nuanced portrayal of OJ, a man burdened by the weight of his family’s legacy and the pressures of survival. Keke Palmer’s Emerald is the perfect foil to OJ’s stoicism—energetic, ambitious, and fiercely determined to carve out her own place in the world. Their dynamic is central to the film’s emotional core, grounding the story in a deep sense of familial loyalty and shared struggle.

Conclusion: A Modern Masterpiece

Nope is a film that demands to be unpacked, discussed, and revisited. Jordan Peele has once again proven his ability to blend genre with social commentary, creating a film that is both entertaining and intellectually stimulating. By tackling themes of animal exploitation and Afro-Surrealism, Peele invites us to question the systems of power that shape our world and the ways in which they exploit both nature and marginalized communities.

In a cinematic landscape often dominated by formulaic blockbusters, Nope stands out as a bold, original work that challenges its audience to think critically about the stories we tell and the histories we erase. It’s a film that resonates on multiple levels, offering something new with each viewing—a testament to Peele’s genius as a filmmaker and storyteller.

Written By Chloe Kaleah Stewart